


From This Day Forward

by RileyC



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Romance, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picking up immediately after <i>Till Death</i>, Duncan and Methos take a shot at their own happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From This Day Forward

**Author's Note:**

> Originally appeared in the print zine, FUTURES WITHOUT END #1.

Waving at Duncan and Adam, standing together on the deck of the barge, Gina  
de Valicourt got into the car. "They make a cute couple, don't they?"

Preoccupied with traffic, Robert said, "Who does?"

"Duncan and Adam, of course. They're living together, you know."

"Really? I hadn't realized. Are you sure?"

"It's obvious."

"No wonder Mac was in such a fret that you went after Pierson's head."

"It's good to see Duncan happy with someone again."

"Well, Amanda's been around quite a lot."

Gina wrinkled her nose. "Amanda has many good qualities," she said  
doubtfully, "but he needs someone more stable."

"Hmm, I never even knew Mac fancied men."

Teasing, Gina said, "And if you had?"

"Gina, really!"  
~*~

 

"So, do you even own a suit?" Duncan MacLeod asked, looking Methos over  
with a critical eye. "You can't wear jeans to the wedding."

"I own a suit," Methos said, a little defensive. "I think."

"Uh-huh," Mac answered in a knowing tone.

"Listen, some of us have more on our minds than personal vanity."

"Oh, yeah, I've noticed how modest you are," Duncan countered. "Mr. I Knew  
Socrates, I Slept With Lucrezia Borgia, I Met Alexander And He Wasn't That  
Great."

Methos tried, but couldn't help laughing at Duncan's litany. "I never said  
I slept with Lucrezia Borgia. Cesare, maybe."

Duncan threw a pillow at him.  
~*~

 

In the end there was nothing for it but to go shopping. Forcing Methos to  
endure a day of fittings and measurings went a little way towards making up  
for the broken vase. Getting him into a pricey hair salon would have gone  
even further, but Methos proved inflexible on that particular point.

"So," Mac teased, "you're going for the homegrown look?"

Methos folded his arms, refusing to budge from the car.

Undaunted, Duncan continued prodding. "Amanda says there's a guy here,  
Lorenzo, who can do the most amazing things-"

"MacLeod, shut up."

MacLeod bit back a grin. "O-kaay. You want to look like you cut your hair  
with a weed-whacker..."

"It's my hair."

"Yeah, but I'm the one who has to look at it."

"So don't look. Are we done yet?"

"I guess. Unless you want to go look at that apartment-hint, hint."

Methos smiled evilly. "The advert said no showings after four--it's a  
quarter past five."

"Maybe another time?"

"Maybe."

The Highlander's "Uh-huh" was profoundly skeptical as he turned the car and  
drove back to the barge. "How about earning your keep and cooking dinner  
for a change?"

"Fine, I can do that."

"No sea anemones."

"No, they're out of season. I was thinking stewed monkey testicles."

Duncan almost bit his tongue trying not to laugh.

"I'm serious," Methos said, perfectly straight-faced--except for the sparkle  
in his eyes. "They were quite the gourmet delicacy once."

"I'll bet."

"Yeah. Nebuchadnezzar had them all the time."

The banter continued during their trip back to the barge. Once the clothing  
purchases were stored, Methos busied himself in the galley. After one  
slightly dubious look at what Methos was stirring into a saucepan, Duncan  
left him to it. He put on a blues CD Joe had given him and settled down  
with a newspaper.

After awhile, some interesting and not displeasing aromas wafted out from  
the galley. Methos approached with two glasses of wine, handing one to  
Duncan before relaxing at the other end of the sofa, long legs stretched  
out and crossed at the ankles. "Anything interesting going on?" Methos  
inquired, indicating the newspaper.

"The usual."

"Five thousand years and it's always 'the usual.'"

"Is that why you're a cynic?" Duncan asked.

"In the classical or modern sense?"

"There's a difference?"

Nodding, Methos said, "Big one. Cynics were originally adherents of a Greek  
philosophy that held Virtue to be the only true good thing, and thought  
that it could only be obtained through self-discipline and independence of  
thought and action."

"'To thine own self be true?'"

"Mmm-hmm," Methos nodded.

"And the modern perception stems from the realization that that's an  
unobtainable goal?"

Methos gave him a smug look over the rim of his glass. "For most people."

"Oh, pardon me, I didn't know I was in the presence of a master of an  
ancient Greek philosophy."

"Well," Methos lowered his eyes in a demonstration of blatantly false  
modesty, "I wouldn't say a master."

"I'm sure you wouldn't," Duncan said, smiling. He sniffed the air. "Do you  
have something burning?"

Jumping up, Methos hurried back to the galley. "Not quite. Are you ready to  
eat?"

"Sure." Duncan sat at the table, eyeing the dishes as Methos brought them  
over and began serving.

Sitting opposite him, Methos picked up his own fork. "Well, go ahead."

Warily, Duncan forked up a piece of what looked like chicken-and tasted  
like it, too. "It's not bad," he admitted, poking his fork through the side  
dish, some concoction of rice, vegetables, and Escoffier-knew-what. He  
tried a small bit, savoring the textures, trying to identify the flavors.  
"Do I want to know what this is?"

Methos gave him a blandly innocent look. "Your call."

Duncan continued to eat, considering. "Maybe ignorance is bliss?"

"Might be," Methos agreed. "Don't you trust me, Mac?"

"With my life, yes. But my stomach...?"

They verbally sparred and teased through the meal, finishing the wine, and  
finally pushed away from the table feeling very content and replete. A  
little too replete, in fact, and Duncan suggested a walk after washing the  
dishes. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so, and it had to be vastly  
better than Moscow right about now, Duncan considered. He missed Amanda,  
but he'd been glad to get away from the circus and back to Paris, although  
he wished his return had not been prompted by the news of Alexa's death.

Looking at the man beside him, he said, "Are you okay?"

Eyes narrowed, Methos looked back at him. "Fine. Why?"

"It hasn't been very long."

Methos didn't pretend to misunderstand. "No." He shrugged with feigned  
indifference. "It's not like it hasn't happened before."

"Maybe not, but it's not something you ever get used to."

"No," Methos quietly agreed. He sighed, breath misting in the chilly air.  
"I did think it would be different this time, knowing it was coming, being  
prepared." He looked at Duncan with a wry, sad smile. "Every time it  
happens I swear it's the last time, that we're not meant to get involved  
with them."

Duncan echoed the smile. "And then another one comes along who you can't  
resist."

"Yes."

"Did you ever tell Alexa about yourself?"

Methos shook his head. "I thought about it, and I know she wondered about  
things. She found my sword once, and it freaked her out a little. I  
explained it away as just a souvenir I'd picked up on our travels, but I  
don't know if she really bought it." His laugh was soft, rueful with fond  
memory. "I had to wear a bandage on my leg for over a week when she saw me  
get cut. And then she kept wondering why there was nothing in my medicine  
cabinet but toothpaste and a razor. I hated having to lie to her, but what  
could I say? 'I'm sorry you're dying, but hey, I get to live forever unless  
someone cuts my head off.'"

Duncan's smile was melancholy now. "I'd have thought that by now you would  
have found a better way to say it."

"Maybe." Methos drew his coat around him. "It boils down to the same thing,  
though."

"I suppose. I don't know--it's always a hard decision. Even when I'd told  
Tessa what I was, it took Connor's showing up to make me get around to the  
rest of it."

"At least she stayed, afterwards. They don't, always."

"No," Duncan said, thinking of Anne.

They walked along quietly for awhile, then Methos said, "So, what other  
incredibly cheerful topics can we discuss?"

Laughing, Duncan slipped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close for  
a moment. "Sorry. I guess there's a reason the Scots aren't known as the  
Happy Ray of Sunshine People."

Grinning, Methos said, "Want to take in a movie?"

Duncan agreed, thinking that might cheer them up. After posing and  
rejecting several possibilities, they agreed on a reissue of The Umbrellas  
of Cherbourg.

Afterward, as they were walking back to the barge, he couldn't help marking  
the difference between attending a French film with Methos as opposed to  
Richie. It wasn't only that he didn't have to explain what was going on, or  
translate the dialogue, although that did make a change. The main  
difference was that even allowing for the vast disparity in their ages and  
life experience, he felt a sense of connection with the older Immortal that  
would never exist to the same degree with Richie. Fond as he was of Richie,  
Duncan could never forget that he was a kid, nor completely put aside the  
paternal feelings his former student elicited. Methos aroused a lot of  
feelings, including what Methos would no doubt consider a ludicrous sense  
of protectiveness, but one thing Duncan didn't feel was fatherly towards  
him. With Methos, he felt like he was with an equal, someone who got the  
references and understood the context.

On this occasion, the chief point of consensus as they strolled back to the  
barge was that there were many more painful ways to spend a couple of hours  
than watching Catherine Deneuve.

Touching Duncan's elbow, Methos pointed skyward. "Look."

Following the extended arm, Mac watched the shooting star as it streaked  
across the sky.

"That would have been a portent of some kind, back when," Methos said.  
Brows knitting, he added, "I can almost remember, sometimes, someone saying  
there were falling stars the night I was born. Or maybe I just imagined  
it." His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I do remember thinking, for a long  
time, that maybe that's what made me different."

"It's as good a reason as any."

"Once upon a time..." Methos sighed, still watching the night sky. "It's  
one of the few things that hasn't changed past recognition in five thousand  
years."

Standing behind him, hearing the wistful note in his friend's voice, Duncan  
rested his hands on the strong, lean shoulders, squeezing gently. "What was  
it like, realizing you were going to go on and on while everything around  
you changed and vanished?"

"Don't you know?"

"Yes, but it hasn't been thousands of years for me. If I go back to  
Glenfinnan, it's not that different from when I was a boy. I still know it.  
Do you even know where you came from?"

"I think I remember it was cold a lot, but other than that...?" He shook  
his head. "You know when they found that Iceman, in the Alps?"

"Uh-huh."

"I've always wanted to go and see him, see if maybe I recognized him. Long  
shot, but you never know."

"Guess not." Duncan sighed, knowing he would never really be able to grasp  
how long this man had been alive. Fifty centuries, almost the whole of  
known, recorded history. The wonder wasn't that he still had all his  
marbles, but that--his air of been there/done that jaded cynicism aside--he  
could still care, could still love, knowing it was all so transient. Duncan  
didn't know if he could do the same over such a stretch of years. There  
were days when his paltry four hundred years weighed almost too heavily to  
bear.

"Mac...?"

"Hmm?" Coming back from his wool-gathering, Duncan realized he had slipped  
his arms around Methos' chest, that he was holding him lightly, his cheek  
brushing against the short, soft hair. "Sorry." Duncan let him go. "I was  
thinking."

"Always a dangerous prospect," Methos teased, offering to make a joke of  
it.

Mac played along--even though he felt a pang at Methos' light treatment of  
the moment. "Yeah, I might get to thinking about how to unload a  
five-thousand-year-old mooch."

"You know," Methos said as they went up the ramp, "there was a time when a  
household would have been honored by my presence."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yep. They knew how to appreciate learning and life experience back when."

"Guess I need to brush up on my veneration."

"It could use some work," Methos agreed. He shed his coat, but immediately  
noticed that the barge had grown chilly during their absence and approached  
the fireplace to rekindle the embers.

"Maybe a Methos Appreciation Day?" Duncan suggested. He retrieved Methos'  
abandoned coat and hung it up beside his own.

"That would be a start," Methos agreed.

"I'm sure it would," Duncan replied. He settled in a comfortable chair,  
quite unaware of the expression of fond affection on his face.

Methos gave him a curious look, shaking his head as if dismissing some  
errant thought. "I will look into that apartment, get out of your hair."

"There's no rush." Mac adjusted the pieces on the chessboard. "Want a  
game?"

"Sure." Methos joined him near the fireplace. "Did you play Darius?"

"Mmm-hmm." Duncan nodded.

"Did you ever win?"

"Nope."

"Me neither," Methos shared a reminiscent smile with Duncan before making  
the first move, pushing a cautious pawn forward.

Answering his friend's move, Duncan asked, "Did he know who you were?"

"Yes. I gave him a false name when I first came to him, but it wasn't long  
before he had the truth of me." He shook his head, as if marveling that the  
priest had been able to slip past all his defenses. "He made it very easy  
to confide."

"I know. What brought you to him?" This was something Mac had long wondered  
about, but had always felt a little reluctant to bring up.

"The need for sanctuary."

Duncan waited a moment, then prompted, "From?"

Eyes intent on the board, Methos said, "A lot of things."

Considering him thoughtfully, Duncan dearly wanted to pursue the mystery.  
"Whatever it was, it must have been a long time ago."

"It was." Methos nudged another pawn forward.

Duncan nodded. If this wasn't the time and place, so be it. "Okay."

Methos looked up then, his expression a little uncertain. "Mac..." he  
sighed. "Aren't there things in your past you would just as soon forget?"

Far too many. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"You weren't." Methos' smile was gentle, tolerant of the 'kid's' curiosity.  
"So, did Darius ever tell you about Clothilde?"

"Clothilde? No, I don't think so. Who was she?"

"Ah, therein hangs a tale. She was a wealthy young widow, new to the  
quarter, who discovered a profound devotion to the church--right after she'd  
gotten a good look at the priest at St. Joseph's. She was, in more ways  
than one, a considerable handful..."

They played on, swapping Darius stories, although Duncan had nothing to  
match his old friend's attempts to ward off the amorous advances of Madame  
Clothilde. The game finally ended in a draw.

Pushing back from the table, Methos smothered a yawn. "I don't know about  
you, but I'm for turning in."

Duncan stifled his own yawn. "It is getting late, and tomorrow's going to be  
a long day."

"Nothing so frantic as a wedding day."

"So speaks the man who's had sixty-eight of them!"

"Yeah, well, it always seemed like a good idea at the time."

"But it wasn't always, in the end?" Duncan said, starting to switch off  
lights as Methos made up the couch.

"Sometimes. A lot depended on the times." Methos pulled off his sweater.  
"Never marry the niece of the local witch-finder, MacLeod, it can turn very  
nasty."

"I'll bet." Duncan let his self-invited guest have first crack at the  
bathroom. "What was the longest you stayed with anyone?" he asked, leaning  
against the doorjamb.

Methos considered the question as he brushed his teeth. "Twenty-three  
years, far as I can remember," he said, rinsing his mouth. "Her name was  
Elizabeth. We met in London during the Restoration; I nursed her through  
the plague, we both survived the Great Fire, and she stayed around when I  
told her what I was." His smile was warm and gentle, and it pleased Duncan  
to know his friend had some fond memories; he did wonder sometimes.

"What happened to her?" He almost hated to ask.

"She came down with pneumonia, and we didn't have antibiotics back then."  
Only a small tinge of sadness clouded his smile. "You'd have liked  
her--Amanda reminds me of her, a little, although Bess wasn't nearly as good  
a pickpocket."

"Pickpocket?"

"Umm, that's how I met her--she tried to rob me." He shook his head, eyes  
narrowed in a sort of wry surprise. "I haven't thought about Bess in ages."

"Good memory?" Duncan asked, catching his eye.

Methos nodded. "One of the best."

Duncan patted his shoulder in passing. "I'm glad."

Methos looked at him quizzically, but didn't reply as he headed to the  
couch. Duncan paused, watching as Methos pulled off his shoes and socks  
then tugged his T-shirt over his head, leaving his hair ruffled. As he  
regarded the figure before him, softly lit by the dimmed light, Duncan  
wondered how often his friend had been likened to a Greek statue. Try as he  
might, he couldn't immediately come up with anything more apt to describe  
the clean, spare lines, the muscles appearing even more sharply defined  
because of the smoothness of his skin. A line of poetry floated through his  
mind:a thing of beauty is a joy forever. He pulled his gaze away as  
Methos started to unfasten his jeans, before his friend noticed his stare,  
and things became complicated.

Does it have to be complicated? he wondered, reaching for his own  
toothbrush and taking a curious pleasure in seeing Methos' right beside it.  
It wasn't just that he liked having someone around, but that playing house  
with Methos, in particular, felt so right. He'd noticed it when Methos had  
come to visit him in Seacouver, the way Methos immediately made himself at  
home as if he belonged there and always had. From the day they had met -  
mi casa es su casa. What in the world had possessed Methos to say that,  
to offer that? Why had it seemed so comfortable right from the start? But,  
Duncan knew, frowning at his reflection, there could be a tremendous gulf  
of difference between feeling welcome to crash on a friend's couch and  
climbing into that same friend's bed.

The potential complications went beyond that, though. If that was really  
all there was to it, the inclination for a friendly, no-strings-attached  
tumble between the sheets, it would have been so much easier to deal with,  
to dismiss. This felt like a whole lot more. He hadn't expected it, he  
hadn't actively sought it, and he doubted it was even possible to pinpoint  
that one moment when the corner had been turned, and Methos had become so  
much more to him than an acquaintance. He thought something had been there  
right from the start, a sense of connection that had caught him unaware. If  
someone had asked him how he would feel upon meeting Methos, Duncan thought  
it might have been something like awe. Instead, while there had been an  
element of wonder, overriding it had been something more akin to  
recognition - oh, there you are.

A lot of it, Duncan supposed, had been in the timing. His personal life had  
been in turmoil for so long, three of the people he loved most dearly had  
been so brutally wrenched from him, and his attempt to find stable ground  
with Anne had probably been doomed from the beginning. He had been adrift,  
only the drive to find Kalas giving him focus--and into that maelstrom came  
Methos: centered, grounded, effortlessly pulling Duncan MacLeod into his  
orbit.

He could still remember the disappointment he'd felt when it seemed Methos  
had disappeared-maybe never to be seen again, he'd thought at the time. The  
delight had been just as sharp when, his romance with Anne over for good,  
he had wandered into St. Joseph's Chapel, wishing with all his heart that  
Darius was there to talk with him. For a moment, as he had felt the  
presence of a powerful Immortal, he had almost thought...  
===

 

Looking around the church, trying to locate the source of Immortal  
presence, Duncan saw a tall, lanky form detach itself from the shadows. For  
a moment his heart caught in his throat, and Darius' name was on his lips  
when the shape resolved into... "Methos?"

"Highlander." Methos acknowledged him with a brief smile, head slightly  
cocked. "Miss me?"

The teasing light in the hazel eyes didn't invite a serious answer, and  
until that moment Duncan hadn't realized just how much he had missed the  
ancient Immortal. He'd known him for, what, something like twenty-four  
hours, but somehow it felt like one of the strongest relationships he had  
ever formed.

All the same, he answered, "Wondered where you went," in a casual tone that  
didn't convey much concern over the matter. "Where did you go?"

"I discovered a lead on Methos in Jerusalem." He shrugged. "It seemed like  
a good idea to be hard to reach if everything hit the fan." His head  
slightly lowered, he gave MacLeod a speculative look. "Did you tell Joe?"

Duncan had to admit that he had. "I knew it wouldn't go any further, with  
him."

"Well, he does seem adept at keeping secrets."

"That makes two of you," Duncan returned.

Methos smiled in acknowledgment of a compliment. "It's a gift," he said  
modestly.

"I'm sure," Duncan said, also smiling.

They had fallen into easy conversation then, the Highlander discovering  
that Darius had been a common friend--and how was it, Duncan had often  
wondered, that Darius had never said a word about that? Methos had revealed  
a new side of himself, his sardonic humor giving way to genuine regret at  
Darius' death. He appreciated the details Duncan was able to supply.

"He would have liked that," Methos said after Duncan told him about the  
ceremony conducted as Darius' ashes were scattered in the Seine. "I tried  
to find out what had happened to his body, but even his Watcher didn't  
know."

They had left the church and were walking along in comfortable  
companionship, strides matching easily. "Did you have any idea what was  
going on with Horton?" Duncan asked.

"Not exactly. There were inklings, a sense of something stirring, but never  
anything definite. Adam Pierson isn't the type they would be likely to try  
and recruit." Methos gave him a wry look. "I did wonder, when the  
information began filtering through Watcher headquarters, if I'd picked the  
right place to hide after all."

"Let me guess: you found a lead on Methos halfway around the world?"

"Bright boy!"  
===

 

It had been a bit like coaxing a stray cat to come in out of the rain,  
Duncan reflected, and with much the same result. Although Methos had  
maintained a certain aloof diffidence for awhile, even performed subsequent  
disappearing acts, one day he had simply turned up of his own accord and  
presumptively settled in to make himself at home: 'Hi, I'm your new  
Immortal--where's the beer?' Well, at least he didn't shed or claw the  
furniture.

It would be so easy to leave it at that, and he firmly insisted to himself  
that he could be perfectly content with the status quo--and then he'd catch  
a glimpse of Methos, the mouth turned up and those eyes sparkling with  
mischief, and his stomach would sort of contract and flip over, and he'd  
feel swamped with a wash of love he hadn't felt since Tessa. He just wished  
wooing Methos could be as easy, that there was some set pattern to follow.  
It was hardly something that could be casually broached over tea and  
cookies - One lump or two? And, oh, by the way, I'm crazy in love with  
you and want to take you to bed and fuck you senseless. Do you want milk  
with that?

Although sometimes, he thought, Methos being Methos, maybe that would be  
exactly the best way to bring it up.

With nothing resolved, but with a silly smile plastered on his face, Duncan  
returned to the living room, glancing over at the blanket-covered lump on  
his sofa. "You warm enough?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Sure? There's more blankets." There's a nice cozy bed, if... but he  
quickly pushed that thought away.

"I'm fine, Mac." The sound of an expansive yawn filled the room. "G'night."

"Okay. 'Night, Methos." Catching the yawn, Mac clicked off the bedside lamp  
and climbed between his sheets, lying awake for awhile until a soft snore  
from the couch signaled that the other Immortal had drifted off to  
dreamland. God, Duncan thought, even that gives me a warm fuzzy  
feeling. He really was far gone.  
~*~

 

Waking from a pleasant dream that he couldn't quite remember-except that  
the Highlander had been there, all soft-eyed and velvet-voiced, those  
sensual lips curved in an inviting smile-Methos shifted around on the  
couch, too warm and stimulated to get comfortable again. So he could pretty  
well guess what the dream had been about, what all too many of his dreams  
had concerned since the day Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had walked  
through his door and into his life.

Sometimes he thought the worst thing about this infatuation, these  
fantasies, was their resemblance to some bodice-ripper romance--not that he  
had ever actually read one of those, of course. He suspected it had  
something to do with the kilt. True, Methos had never actually seen Mac in  
a kilt, but it was a beguiling image his imagination refused to leave  
alone.

He pushed the blankets away as he sat up, his gaze automatically drawn to  
the bed where MacLeod was splayed out in peaceful slumber. His eyes  
lingered just a little too long on one long, muscular leg thrust out from  
the blanket, a bare foot wiggling a little until it worked its way back  
under the covers.

Methos sighed. Great--five thousand years old, and he was on the verge of  
developing a foot fetish. Could he get more ludicrous?

Getting up, he padded silently over to the fridge to fetch a bottle of  
water as he wondered what in the world to do about this. The sensible  
thing, of course, couldn't be more dead obvious: run, as rapidly as  
possible, from wherever Duncan MacLeod happened to be. Somehow, though,  
good sense was not his prevailing consideration at the moment.

It troubled him, too, that he was having these thoughts, these feelings,  
with Alexa so newly gone from this world. If he were honest with himself,  
he would admit that the feelings he had for MacLeod, about MacLeod,  
predated anything having to do with Alexa. He even, sometimes, suspected  
that he had used Alexa as a sort of shield against his attraction to  
Duncan. It had been easy enough to dodge at the start, what with Kalas, the  
missing disks, and Amanda's presence. Once he'd come to Seacouver, though,  
and taken up residence as the Highlander's uninvited, semipermanent  
houseguest, it had grown increasingly difficult to insist that his interest  
in Mac included any kind of detachment. Duncan MacLeod was something new  
under the sun, in every way possible, and Methos knew he'd been teetering  
on the edge of falling for him, hard, from the instant they had laid eyes  
on each other.

Meeting Alexa, finding himself so drawn to her, had provided a sort of  
grounding, a fragment of reality to cling to and stay focused upon. While  
he had Alexa to think about, Alexa to love, Alexa to dazzle with the  
wonders of the world, he could push thoughts of the Highlander away.

Until the day the proverbial bell rang...  
===

 

Try though he might, Methos couldn't help but laugh at Alexa's dismay. The  
cork had violently exploded from the champagne bottle, thoroughly dousing  
them both. Wiping his face, Methos picked up the ringing telephone.  
"Pierson here."

"Adam? Joe."

Uh-oh. "Yes? Is something the matter?" It was possible Joe Dawson would  
ring up out of the blue just to chat, but Methos wasn't holding his breath.

"It's MacLeod."

Of course. "What about him?" Methos asked, mentally bracing himself for  
the worst. What else could it be except that the Highlander had finally met  
his match, and Joe was calling to break the news? "Who was it, Joe?"

"Coltec. Listen-"

Coltec? He and Mac were friends, from what Methos knew; besides, Coltec  
didn't take heads. What the hell was Joe talking about? "Say that again?"

"Coltec overloaded on a Quickening-so has Mac."

Methos sat down. "How do you mean, overloaded?"

"Do you know anything about Dark Quickenings?"

Oh God, no, not MacLeod. "A little," he'd answered, and almost the next  
thing he knew, he was telling Alexa that some urgent business had come up  
that he absolutely had to attend to; that she would be fine on her own for  
a couple of days; that he'd call her, and be back soon, and everything--all  
the while not knowing what the hell awaited him, except that he had to get  
to MacLeod.

He hadn't even thought about Alexa again, in all the frantic rushing  
around, not until he had deposited Duncan safely back at the barge,  
entrusted to Rachel's care. And then he'd gone back to his apartment to  
find Alexa gone, and the concierge had told him Mademoiselle Bond had been  
taken to the hospital, and everyone had been trying to reach him for two  
days...  
===

 

That probably said it all, Methos considered, sipping his water. His  
gaze returned to Duncan's sleeping form. Alexa had been understanding,  
forgiving, but almost in a way that said it was only what she had expected  
all along: to be forgotten, abandoned. He thought that the guilt he'd felt  
might have been what spurred his pursuit of the Methuselah Stone. If he  
could find all the pieces, if it worked--what? Alexa would be cured, would  
be Immortal like him, and they would live happily ever after?

For her sake, he wished it had been possible, and it did make a lovely  
fantasy, but he had suspected reality would have other ideas at some point.  
That first wedge had already been driven between them--and he really doubted  
Alexa would have understood, or been understanding, about what Mac was to  
him. What he wanted Mac to be to him.

Of course, he had no real idea how understanding the Highlander would be,  
if he knew about the feelings his best friend was harboring toward him.  
Sometimes he wondered if even that much, considering himself Mac's friend,  
was a little too presumptuous, like the way he'd just up and moved in here  
with him. He could have found some other place to crash for the time being,  
but the opportunity had just been too good to pass up--and right up until  
he'd stretched out on the couch the first night, Methos had even convinced  
himself the whimsy was borne of nothing more ulterior than enjoying the  
Highlander's company. Yeah, right. That's why it had been such a restful  
night (not), filled with innocent dreams (even more not), and why he'd  
awakened at dawn just to watch Duncan sleep. That's why he was up right  
now--in more ways than one-and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed  
beside Mac.

He really hated unrequited love and dearly wished he could shake off these  
feelings, this obsession. All it would take, the sensible part of his brain  
was forever pointing out, was to go away from wherever the Highlander was,  
and stay away--for a century or three. There was fat bloody chance of that  
happening, though, not when Duncan would look at him sometimes in a certain  
way, do something--that smile after swiping his nose with the paint, or the  
way he'd been batting his eyelashes while talking him into the scheme to  
reconcile Robert and Gina. There was no way Duncan MacLeod of the Clan  
MacLeod had been flirting with him, for goodness sake! And yet...he sighed,  
sipping his water. And yet Methos couldn't quite bring himself to fob off  
those little moments as nothing but lunatic wishful thinking on his part.

But if it was difficult for him to bring up the subject, why shouldn't it  
be equally awkward for Mac? Maybe all the more so if this was a novelty,  
some expansion of his horizons. Methos had gathered it had been a rough few  
years for Mac, that his personal losses still cut deep--Darius, Tessa,  
Fitzcairn; he suspected that Duncan was still smarting a little from Anne  
Lindsey's rejection, as well. Small wonder that he was reluctant to embark  
on a new relationship, especially one with the potential of lasting a very  
long while.

Methos was more than a little floored at that idea, himself. After avoiding  
long-lasting entanglements with other Immortals for such a vast span of  
time, he found himself more than a little inclined to get very tangled up  
with the Highlander.

And what if Duncan were interested, but only for one night? That gnawed at  
Methos and kept him from pressing the issue. At the beginning, one night  
might have been enough, when it had been little more than lust at first  
sight and hormones zinging to sudden life. Getting to know the Highlander,  
though, had not only increased his admiration for MacLeod, but sweetened it  
with a desire that felt like one of the purest emotions he had ever known.  
He knew that should be some kind of paradox, but it didn't feel like one.  
Methos supposed it was ridiculous, and he would have thought he had long  
since discarded such romantic notions-but Alexa had shown him otherwise.  
Now he knew that he wanted the works, and he didn't know if he could lower  
his expectations and settle for what Mac had with Amanda, if that was all  
Mac wanted.

Shaking his head, wanting to banish all the fraught and fretting thoughts,  
he started back to the couch, stubbing his toe on some awkwardly placed  
piece of furniture. He tried not to make any noise, but with only partial  
success, as Duncan turned, dark eyes blinking open to peer up at him  
sleepily. "Oh, it's you," he murmured, smiling in recognition, then  
burrowing back into the bed.

Methos' stomach did a funny little contracting flip, and for a moment, he  
felt positively overwhelmed by that display of utter trust. If he had  
awakened Kronos in the dead of night, he'd have found a blade at his throat  
in an instant.

He settled back on the couch, pulling the covers up, his mind turning and  
turning.  
~*~

 

Duncan was the first one awake in the morning -- huge surprise, he reflected  
with a fond smile at the non-stirring lump on his couch. He didn't doubt  
that if another Immortal abruptly put in an appearance, Methos would be  
wide awake and have sword in hand in a split second, but practically from  
the start he had let himself relax completely in Duncan's presence,  
something that still touched Duncan very deeply. As he prepared breakfast,  
the Highlander couldn't help letting his thoughts drift back to that first  
meeting...  
===

 

"Live, Highlander. Grow stronger. Fight another day." Methos spoke the  
words as if they were a mantra and placed the blade of the katana against  
his long, pale throat.

Duncan studied the figure before him, saw the fists clenched, the tension  
that suffused the tall, slender form, eyes tightly closed. He was scared to  
death. And yet he was willing to stand there and give up his head to  
someone he barely knew on the chance it might help Duncan to defeat Kalas.  
The Highlander hadn't thought that much could surprise him anymore, but  
this certainly did.

For one more eternal moment, he held the pose, then he stepped back and  
lowered the blade.

Those fathomless, green-gold eyes opened, a quizzical furrow between the  
brows as Methos said, "You're a fool, MacLeod."

"Maybe."

"There's no Rule that says the good guys always win, Highlander!"

"I won't have your life be the price of beating Kalas."

The older Immortal looked back at him, trying to process that. "No one else  
would think twice about it."

"Some would." Duncan spoke the words with conviction, but in truth wondered  
if they weren't fatuous naiveté. Even he felt awed by the potential power  
this man contained. Five thousand years--who knew how many Quickenings.  
Small wonder Kalas wanted this head, that power.

"Yeah? Name two," Methos challenged.

In all honesty, Duncan knew he could only name one--but it was the only one  
that mattered at the moment. "I won't. It can't be worth it," he said, and  
was treated to a look that blended incredulity with wonder.

Eyes narrowed, Methos shook his head in disbelief. "Even if it's your only  
chance to beat him?"

"Even if. Methos," Duncan sheathed the katana and moved a couple of steps  
closer. "I didn't find you just to kill you in the same breath. There has  
to be another way."

"And if there isn't?"

"There will be." However ill-founded his confidence might be, Duncan was  
not prepared to relinquish it. "Kalas isn't worth your life--he's cost me  
too much already."

Methos ran a hand through his hair and pulled his coat around him. "You  
won't reconsider?"

"No."

The oldest Immortal's sigh carried more than a hint of exasperation. "I  
hope you know what you're doing, MacLeod."

That made two of them. "What will you do now?"

The thin shoulders lifted in a diffident shrug. "Go back to my place. Why?"

"No," Duncan reached a hand out to stop him. "You can't--Kalas might be  
waiting for you."

With a weary shake of his head, Methos looked like that had just occurred  
to him. "Yes, he probably is." He sighed again. "I'll find a room, or  
something."

"Listen, I have a barge nearby--why don't you stay there for the night?"

The wry incredulity was back in the hazel eyes. "With you?"

"Yes."

"Take in a lot of stray Immortals, do you, MacLeod?"

"As needed. Come on."

Methos murmured something that sounded like, "I hope they broke the mold  
when they made you," but Duncan wasn't sure--and was even less sure if it  
was meant as a compliment. After a moment, though, Methos followed, falling  
into step beside him.

At the barge, he looked around as if memorizing the layout. Moving through  
the main room, he peered at this and that, picking up one object or another  
for closer examination, running a finger along a row of books. It seemed to  
meet with his approval, and he didn't say no when Duncan offered some clean  
sweats and a T-shirt in place of the clothes still damp from his immersion  
in the river.

"The bathroom's there," Duncan said, pointing. "There's plenty of hot water  
if you want a shower."

Still looking dubious, Methos nevertheless disappeared into the bathroom.  
When he returned, fresher and drier, he also accepted the offer of dinner,  
but maintained the presence of one poised for flight at a moment's notice.  
So much so that when Methos was starting on his second cup of coffee,  
Duncan said, "Methos, do you really think I'd go to the trouble of luring  
you here to take your head, when it would've been a hell of a lot easier  
back in the tunnel?"

Looking surprised to be caught out in his paranoia, those wonderful eyes  
narrowed with annoyance--but just as quickly a wry smiled quirked the mouth.  
"I suppose that would be a little absurd." He seemed to visibly relax then,  
the long body sprawling out on the couch. He gazed into the coffee cup,  
saying, "Did Don suffer much, do you think?"

Duncan would have liked to offer some comfort, but somehow knew this man  
wouldn't want anything glossed over. "Yes, I think he must have."

The sleek dark head nodded, once. "I suppose you fight cleanly, fairly?"

Duncan frowned, mulling that over. "I try to."

"Pity."

Yes, Duncan could understand that Methos might want Kalas to suffer a  
little, before the end. "Dead's dead."

"And nothing good ever comes from revenge." Methos sighed, looking up to  
meet Duncan's eyes, that ironic smile back. "Not much as ancient wisdom  
goes, huh?"

They talked on for awhile, trying to stay on neutral topics. Duncan did his  
best not to badger Methos with questions, even while a part of him just  
couldn't get past it: that Methos was on his barge, using his shower,  
drinking his coffee--falling asleep on his sofa. He smiled as the older  
Immortal yawned, eyes growing heavy, looking around with an obvious effort  
at concentration.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" Duncan went to a chest to get out blankets  
and a pillow and brought them over to the couch. "Which do you want -- the bed  
or the couch?"

"The...couch is fine." The look of bemused uncertainty was back, and the  
Highlander supposed it must have been a very long time since this man had  
let his guard down so completely around another of their kind. "Maybe I  
should go-"

"Methos, it's past midnight, and it's raining. Get some sleep--you're safe  
here. You have my word of honor."

"God, you even mean that, don't you?" Again, Methos looked at him as if  
regarding something rare and not quite believable. He didn't argue, though,  
accepting the blankets and finding a comfortable position on the couch-but  
keeping an eye trained on the younger Immortal as Duncan prepared for bed.

The last thing Duncan saw, just as he turned off the bedside lamp, was a  
long arm setting the broadsword down within easy reach. Well, at least he  
doesn't sleep with it under his pillow...  
===

 

Duncan shook his head fondly at the memory as he carried two cups of coffee  
over to the couch. He almost spilled the hot liquid when his gaze was  
distracted by a glimpse of bare chest and arm. The covers slipped as Methos  
moved, snagging at his hip to expose even more ivory flesh. It was far too  
tempting to close the small distance between them and see what would happen  
if he awakened his Sleeping Beauty with a kiss.

Before the fleeting impulse could go any further towards reality, Methos  
sat up. He rubbed his hands over his face, through his hair, and looked  
over at Duncan with sleepy eyes. He smiled. "Morning." With another yawn  
that was accompanied by an expansive stretch, he settled back on the couch  
for a few more moments, while Duncan watched with blatant admiration.

"Umm." He cleared his throat and managed to find his voice after another  
moment, pleased that he sounded perfectly normal. "Come on, rise and shine.  
Gina will come after you if we miss the wedding."

A mischievous sparkle in his eyes, Methos asked in a teasing voice, "Would  
you save me, Highlander?" He kicked back the covers and stood, stretching  
sensuously again--a process not at all innocuous, from Duncan's point of  
view, as that perfect body was clad in nothing but a flimsy pair of boxers.  
"Something wrong?" the world's oldest tease asked with perfect innocence.

And the hell of it was, Duncan had no reason to believe that Methos was  
aware of his effect on Duncan. "No, why would there be anything wrong?"

"No reason. You look a little flushed, that's all. Not coming down with  
something?"

The other man looked entirely too smug, Duncan thought, like he knew the  
Highlander had a case of raging unrequited lust. "I'm fine. Don't take  
forever in the bathroom--and leave me some hot water."

"Don't I always?"

"No."

Methos' grin was unrepentant, and Duncan could have sworn he said something  
like, "Looks like cold water's more the order of the day," before the  
bathroom door closed.

Damn. Duncan stood there for a few moments, feeling positively giddy,  
suddenly seeing a world full of possibilities.  
~*~

 

Well, that was interesting, Methos considered - and was startled by the  
glimpse he caught of himself in the mirror, the silly smile twitching at  
his lips. Somebody had been treating himself to quite an eyeful and getting  
more than a little hot and bothered in the process.

As he showered and shaved, Methos wondered if that spot of early morning  
voyeurism was a new phenomenon, or if the Highlander had been indulging  
himself for some while now. He had to admit that his reaction to this  
particular revelation was mixed. On the one hand, it certainly got him  
tingling in all the right places to think Duncan was turned on by his body.  
But on the other hand, what if that's all it amounted to, what if it didn't  
run any deeper? After all this time, he felt like he ought to have more of  
a clue about this kind of thing, but he must have been absent during those  
particular Wisdom of the Ages seminars.

It was a starting point, at least. That had to be worth something, he  
decided as he finished up--with plenty of hot water left--and returned to the  
living room, a towel slung low on his hips. He found Duncan hanging up the  
phone, a familiar brooding expression settling over his handsome features.  
That was not a good sign. "Something wrong?"

"What?" Mac looked over at him, his eyes momentarily clouded. Then he shook  
his head as if to clear away the memories. "No. At least I hope not." He  
sighed, and Methos wanted to reach over and soothe any troubles away. "I  
was just trying to call Richie."

"Still can't find him?"

"No."

Methos bit his lip, and then he did reach over to touch Duncan's arm, give  
it a reassuring squeeze. "He has to know what happened was because of the  
Dark Quickening, Mac. That it wasn't you."

"I don't know, Methos. Maybe in his head he knows that, but in his  
heart...? If Joe hadn't been there, hadn't interfered, I would have killed  
Richie. Just like Warren."

Yes, Methos had worried the encounter with Warren Cochrane might have raked  
up some raw memories for the Highlander; it certainly had for him. But one  
seminar he hadn't missed was the one about accepting what was and moving  
on, although it had taken a millennia or two for him to learn that  
particular lesson. "Mac, the kid loves you like a father, and I think you  
look at him and see a son a lot more often than you see a student, or even  
a friend."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"No, not bad, but it's a complication. The role of a teacher is to impart  
knowledge and some guidance, not necessarily to be a role model. You've  
gone beyond that with Richie, however. Because you look on him as a  
surrogate son, you find yourself wanting to spare him some of the harder  
lessons you've had to learn."

"And that's a bad thing?" A glint of rueful humor was creeping over  
Duncan's features.

"Only insofar as it never works out that way. He's going to make mistakes;  
he needs to. But he's not stupid--it may take awhile, for both of you, to  
work through this, but I think you will."

The rueful smile finally captured Duncan's lips. "I guess it's because I  
can see myself in him, a little bit-next thing I know I've turned into my  
father."

"And I'll bet being the clan chieftain's son was not always a bed of  
roses."

"No." The dark eyes clouded with memories again. "He demanded a lot of  
me--and it's taken me this long to appreciate some of it."

"So give Richie time."

"Yeah." Duncan exhaled a deep breath, putting his broods away for another  
time. "You ever raise kids?"

"Yep." And buried them and their mothers, so many times. Damn, this was not  
turning out the way he'd hoped just a few minutes ago. "Shouldn't you be  
getting ready?"

"Umm. Yes, I should. Did you leave me some hot water?"

"Gallons."

"I'll bet," Duncan said in a dubious voice that suddenly cracked just a  
little as Methos dropped his towel.

"What's wrong now?" Methos asked, the soul of innocence.

Duncan's mouth opened and closed a couple of times, then he abruptly turned  
and slammed the bathroom door closed.

Grinning, Methos began to dress.  
~*~

 

Well, that was that for another one hundred years, Duncan concluded  
with the satisfaction of a job well done. He watched with a smile as Gina  
and Robert cut their wedding cake. If only his own romantic entanglement  
could be so easily sorted out. Methos had flashed him, for God's sake--what  
did that mean?

"Mac? Something on your mind?" queried his current obsession.

Damn, but he cleaned up nicely, Duncan thought, eyes traveling over the  
tall, lean figure impeccably turned out in a tailored suit. Adam Pierson,  
scruffy grad student, had vanished in a puff of Armani and left this  
impossibly handsome and elegant figure behind. Not for the first time,  
Duncan wondered where on earth this man had come from, what had bred him,  
shaped him. It was sometimes tempting to believe he had sprung into being  
like Athena, fully formed, the beloved creation of some ancient god.

"Earth to MacLeod," Methos was saying, his green-gold eyes narrowed,  
wavering between amusement and concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine." Duncan pulled his thoughts back to reality. "Just weddings,  
you know," he said obscurely.

"If you start bawling, I'm leaving."

Placing a hand over his heart, Duncan pledged, "I swear not to embarrass  
you."

Methos looked doubtful, but let it go. From the serious look that had come  
into his eyes, Mac had the feeling that his friend had something else on  
his mind, but was reluctant to broach it.

"What?"

"Nothing," Methos shook his head.

Mac touched his arm. "Methos--what?"

The broad, lean shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I just wondered if you're  
really okay with this--weddings, I mean. Considering..." he trailed off,  
looking uncomfortable.

"Because of Tessa, you mean?"

Methos nodded.

Duncan smiled, touched by Methos' squirming diffidence. He had been  
thinking of Tessa, remembering how happy she'd been planning their wedding;  
how much he'd been looking forward to it, so certain that this time  
everything would work out just right. "Yes, I'm okay," he answered quietly.  
"But thanks for asking." He'd never forget Tessa; he might never completely  
let her go, but he felt it was time to finally move on. Thinking that now,  
it didn't seem like any betrayal of what he'd had with Tessa. What he was  
feeling for Methos--it was as comfortable and easy as his love for Tessa. It  
felt like the most natural thing in the world: nothing forced, not trying  
so hard, too hard to make something into more than it was. This felt  
so...right.

"Mac...?" Methos was looking back at him, curious, a little uncertain.  
"What--do I have caviar stuck in my teeth?"

"No," the Highlander smiled. "You're fine." Very fine. "Did I mention you  
look really good today?"

Eyes round as saucers, eyebrows crawling toward his hairline, Methos just  
stood there, his mouth open.

Duncan could have kissed him right on the spot. For a moment, he nearly  
did, leaning close enough to feel the warmth of Methos' skin as a pink  
flush colored the pale cheeks. Catching sight of Robert and Gina watching  
them with knowing smirks on their faces, Duncan whispered, "You and I need  
to talk--later," into Methos' ear.

Methos ducked his head, smiling, gazing at Mac with delighted wonder.  
"About what?" he asked casually.

"You know what," Mac murmured, loving the shy smile that sparkled the hazel  
eyes. Taking two glasses of champagne, he handed one to Methos and clinked  
the glasses together. "Do you know the traditional vows? With my body I  
thee worship...?"

Methos almost choked on his champagne, blushing even more furiously and  
looking around wildly to see if anyone was paying them attention--besides  
the bride and groom. "Mac."

Oh yeah, all sorts of possibilities, Duncan thought, wanting to laugh with  
delight at how beautifully flustered Methos looked. He quickly downed his  
champagne and reached for another glass from a passing waiter's tray.  
~*~

 

Listening to Robert give the taxi driver the address of the barge, Duncan  
sank back in the seat feeling absolutely no pain. Methos, sprawled against  
him with his head on Mac's shoulder, was in no better shape. Methos was  
still holding Gina's bouquet-which she had very deliberately thrown at him.

"I'll have Jean Marc bring your car in the morning," Robert said, an  
indulgent smile on his face.

Duncan nodded. He could hardly argue that either he or Methos was in any  
condition to drive. "Send us a postcard," he said, or thought he did. It  
had been a great party.

Robert shook his head, sharing another funny look with Gina. "We will. Let  
me know when you need a best man." Then he closed the door, and Duncan  
wondered what that had been about, and why Robert and Gina kept looking at  
him and Methos with such silly expressions. It was far too much to ponder  
at the moment, however. Slipping an arm around Methos to hold him closer,  
Mac happily dozed on the drive back to Paris, only partly waking at the  
taxi driver's persistent statement that, "We have arrived, Monsieur."  
Blinking owlishly, Duncan looked around. So they had, he realized, spotting  
the barge. Fumbling with some bills, he paid the driver and then somehow  
maneuvered himself and a still mostly comatose Methos up the gangplank and  
inside.

His only clear thought, as he dumped Methos on the bed, was that  
Immortality and champagne were a heady combination. Half-plastered, that  
struck him as hilarious, and he giggled himself to sleep.  
~*~

 

The morning was still more dark than light when Duncan awoke, feeling a  
little cold and stiff. He didn't much feel like moving, though, preferring  
to prop himself on an elbow and watch Methos as he slept. He felt  
unaccountably pleased at the presence of the ancient Immortal beside him;  
he could become very used to this.

Shifting a little, trying to reach down and pull up a comforter, he tried  
not to disturb his companion, but the hazel eyes flickered open. They  
narrowed for a moment, but then Methos smiled faintly and snuggled closer.  
Duncan's stomach did another of those giddy flips, a rush of affection  
threatening to swamp him as he trailed gentle fingers along the vulnerable  
neck, wondering. Tired of wondering, needing to know, once and for all, he  
bent his head and pressed his lips to the pulse point in Methos' neck. He  
breathed the other man's name softly, feathering kisses up to a sharp  
cheekbone. Easing an arm around Methos, holding him close, Duncan burrowed  
his face into the soft hair, sighing with deep contentment.

"Interesting way to wake up," came the soft voice he'd come to love, its  
owner making absolutely no effort to extricate himself.

"Yeah?" Duncan felt the butterflies in his stomach begin to flit away.

"Yeah." Methos shifted around so he could look at him, touch his face. "I  
was always so sure it was my imagination working overtime, that Duncan  
MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod couldn't really be flirting with me."

"Yeah, well, he was." And Duncan artfully batted his lashes at him, for old  
time's sake.

Laughing, Methos rested his hands on the broad shoulders. "So, now we're on  
the same page, what do you suppose we ought to do about this...interesting  
development?"

"Hmm," Duncan gave it deep consideration. "How about this, for starters?"  
he said, and leaned in to find Methos' mouth with his own, pursuing the  
kiss with a single-minded hunger, wanting--needing--the taste of him. He  
teased tender lips with gentle nibbles and flicks of his tongue, coaxing  
them to part under his shy, then bold, intrusion. Methos moaned softly as  
Duncan sweetly plundered his mouth, his hands pressing the Highlander  
closer, meeting the possessive kisses with his own. The soft, sweet  
whimpers of pleasure, Methos' eager response, spurred Duncan's own  
arousal--almost too much, and he broke away, aching with desire, certain he  
could have come in just another moment of that glorious first kiss.

"Methos..." He brushed his fingers through the cropped, dark hair, loving  
the velvety softness. He pressed his lips to the older Immortal's forehead,  
then let his head rest on the other's heaving chest, sensing that his  
friend-his lover?...his lover--was poised on that same precarious brink. He  
sighed heavily, feeling those slim, beautiful fingers combing through his  
hair.

"Yes," Methos spoke up, his voice softer than ever with absolute  
contentment. "That's a nice beginning. What did you have in mind for a  
follow-up?"

"Well," Duncan reluctantly released Methos and sat up. "We might start by  
getting more comfortable." He wanted to touch and kiss every inch of that  
body.

"And warmer?"

Duncan smiled. "And warmer." He got off the bed. "Don't go anywhere."

"I won't," Methos promised.

Duncan nearly pinched himself to make sure this wasn't a dream. Instead he  
concentrated on relighting the fire, all the while casting glances back at  
the bed, almost burning himself on a lit match as Methos began to undress.  
Finishing with the fire, he crossed back to the bed in a few quick strides  
to halt the beguiling process. "I want to do that," he whispered against  
Methos' ear, before flicking it with his tongue and then drawing the lobe  
into his mouth to suck and nip.

The hazel eyes looked dazed--and a little crossed--and Methos nodded his  
complete acquiescence as Duncan's fingers worked at fastenings and  
closures, the discarded garments dropping in a heap at their feet, soon  
joined by Duncan's own. Neither man was cold as their bodies came together  
in an embrace, and Duncan thought he could have been content with that,  
only that: holding the deceptively slender form in his arms, his hands  
roaming over the smooth skin, feeling the strength in Methos' body. Then he  
stepped back to look, and that was almost too much, to see his own delight  
and desire reflected back at him from those wonderful eyes.

Impossible, then, not to touch, to taste, and they sank back on the bed,  
hot now as hands explored, as mouths grazed and licked, every inch of skin  
an erogenous zone as they made love--conjuring it with a touch, a kiss.  
Drawing back to see Methos' face, to watch his eyes change, Duncan fingered  
a nipple with deceptive idleness and watched the sleek head roll on the  
pillow, long lashes drifting down to hide Methos' eyes. Smiling, Duncan  
bent his head to taste the nub of flesh, suckling at it and its twin until  
Methos surged against him, demanding more attention. Gliding up, Mac  
abandoned the salty tang of Methos' skin to press long, savoring kisses to  
the sweet, willing mouth. Sweat-slicked bodies entwined, rubbing, shifting  
on the expanse of bed, drenching each other in kisses as questing fingers  
were given rein to explore every nook and cranny.

Darting his tongue around Methos' navel, Duncan reflected that his new  
lover had some especially nice crannies. His blunt fingers wandered farther  
afield, running along the crease that joined hip and groin, combing through  
the coarse, crisp hair that surrounded his prize. Mac curled his fingers  
around Methos' hard, arcing shaft, skimming them over the tip that already  
wept its pleasure.

Methos' long, beautiful fingers caressed his hair, drawing him back toward  
his lover's mouth. Duncan went willingly, but maintained his claim on  
Methos' cock.

"What do you want?" Duncan asked, before kissing the swollen, bruised lips  
again. "Anything you want," he whispered, only a little surprised at how  
much he meant it.

"I want everything," Methos said, his beautiful voice softer than velvet.  
He framed Duncan's face with his hands, looking at him intently. "I need to  
know if you've done this before, though."

Duncan was both touched and amazed that his lover could even think of that  
right now. "Yes, I have," he answered, and wondered at the disappointment  
that briefly flickered in the golden eyes. "What?" he asked, smoothing his  
fingers along the broad forehead. "Did you want me to be a virgin?"

"Maybe," Methos admitted sheepishly.

Duncan smiled and kissed him more tenderly than ever. "It's our first  
time," he said, combing his fingers through the silky, short hair. "That's  
all that matters."

"God, Mac," Methos breathed, gazing back at him with wonder-filled eyes,  
his hands kneading Mac's strong, broad shoulders, then curving around the  
biceps; Mac's flesh tingled wherever the other Immortal touched him.

"You, maybe." Mac ran his tongue along the sharp-featured face, unable to  
get enough of Methos' flavor--as exotic and mysterious as the ancient ruins  
this man had known in his youth, but vibrant with a richness of life that  
had not dimmed in fifty centuries. If it was possible to taste time, Duncan  
was certain he did so as he kissed Methos' body. He moved, seeking  
stronger, deeper flavors, closing his mouth around Methos' aching arousal  
and taking him deep--he wanted it to be good, to be the best. Then he was  
drowning in sensation: Methos gasped his name, crying out his delight as  
his fingers gripped first Duncan's hair, then his shoulders. Then the lean  
body went still, arching as Duncan held his hips and sucked harder to bring  
forth the pleasure surging through Methos' body, spilling from him in wet  
warmth that filled Duncan's mouth and was swallowed down like some magical  
elixir.

His own urgency barely contained, Duncan shifted to lie next to his lover,  
taking the sated body in his arms and smiling into eyes dazzled with  
pleasure. Holding him close, Duncan moved against him, needing friction,  
heat--anything. The expression in the gold eyes grew sharper and lit with  
understanding. Duncan found his mouth devoured in a kiss even as skilled  
fingers sought his straining cock, offering scant relief as they stroked  
him.

"Methos..." He licked his lover's ear, panted against it. "Methos, I need-"

The ancient hushed him with a kiss, and Methos shifted onto his back again,  
settling Duncan between his raised knees. "I know what you need,  
Highlander--take it."

Duncan couldn't remember when he had last been offered such a gift, and he  
accepted with almost solemn joy, preparing his lover with a care and  
thoroughness that fed the flames yet higher. Their bodies met and mated,  
Duncan sinking into Methos until they were joined as perfectly as if they  
had been meant for each other. There was nothing awkward, nothing rushed;  
eternity was caught and held in a moment as they moved together, two become  
one, hands entwined, the play of tongues mimicking the other mating. The  
plateau so far away--and then too close, too near, impossible not to plunge  
over in joyous abandon. Still close as they came back, still connected with  
hands that reached to soothe the trembling, with lips that pressed over a  
heart, to an eyelid; gazing at each other with eyes that caressed more  
intimately than any mere joining of bodies.

"So, is this it then?" Methos asked after awhile, as Duncan pulled the  
comforter over them and enclosed Methos in his arms.

Brows quirked, Duncan stroked the soft hair at Methos' temple. "Is this  
what?"

Methos twisted a long, dark strand of hair around his finger. "Part of  
Methos Appreciation Day."

Grinning, the Highlander kissed his lips lightly, sweetly. "Guess so." He  
tried to cuddle him even closer.

"What else is on the program?"

"How about a little worshipful adoration?"

Expression solemn, Methos nodded. "Yes, that sounds about right."

"I don't doubt it." Duncan sighed happily. "So, I suppose you know just the  
thing to say at this point."

"Umm," Methos' brows drew together in concentration. "Thanks for coming?"

Duncan would have smothered him, but it seemed a poor way to begin their  
relationship. "Seriously." He twined their fingers together again, looking  
intently at the other man. "I've had a crush on you since the day we met,"  
he confessed, looking at Methos through a fringe of lowered lashes.

A corner of Methos' mouth quirked with a smile. "Me too."

"You've had a crush on yourself since the day we met?"

Methos' elbow jabbed him in the ribs. "How serious do you want?"

"Real serious." Duncan kissed his forehead, his temple. "From this day  
forward..."

Methos drew gentle fingers along the Highlander's face, kissed his mouth.  
"Till death-"

"Not even." Duncan kissed the inside of Methos' wrist. "Not even."

Eyes wide, Methos gazed back at him. "Is this the worshipful adoration  
part?" he whispered.

Duncan smiled, feeling the absurd sting of tears. "Yeah," he whispered  
back, seeking those sweet lips again. "With my body I thee worship..."

~the end~


End file.
